


Ingredients of the Universe

by RicketyBones



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Cooking, Fluff and Humor, Inspired by Ratatouille (2007), M/M, Princess and the Frog elements, Vegetables, rat george
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicketyBones/pseuds/RicketyBones
Summary: A gentle pull and Dream’s hand is reaching for an already-peeled onion – Dream had done it earlier, explaining he wasn’t entirely useless (George wasn’t so sure). The rat navigates it back to the chopping board ahead of them and places it down a bit more aggressively than he’d intended, twitching his nose in surprise at the noise.Hey, there’s a bit of a learning curve, so what?(Rat George - Ratatouille AU)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Ingredients of the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't take this as a measure of my writing abilities, this is a complete joke. I blame bonk chat (specifically Jorjah) entirely.

The door is open, just a crack, but it’s enough.

George knows he shouldn’t – it’s too risky – but the food is _right there_. Wafting aromas of soups and other delicious concoctions permeate the evening air. His mind races with possibility as he thinks of all the cheeses he’d be able to taste, fresh, unlike the bags of garbage he spends his days rooting through.

With no risk, there’s no reward.

He takes his chance, straight into the deep end. If he dies in here, and it’s looking highly likely, at least he’ll die with a grin on his face and nourishment in his stomach.

The linoleum floor is soft against the pads of his feet, a change from the usual concrete. He doesn’t get a chance to take it all in from a human perspective, mind, as he immediately ducks under a counter.

George needs to plan, he can’t just run through the restaurant, he’ll be seen. To his left, a row of hobs, each with their own pots and, judging by the steam emanating off them, holding flavours he can only imagine. _Too risky_. To his right, the industrial chiller. Cold, harder to get into, but worth it. Enough privacy to give him time to trial as many cheeses as he wants, and _oh, how he_ _wants_.

Suddenly, he feels himself removed from the covers of darkness, and he realises – it wasn’t a static counter. He curses himself for not noticing the wheels, for getting too caught up in possibility, then immediately darts to his left, where the platform is trailing away. The chiller will have to wait.

He’s heading straight for the doors to the restaurant. If he goes out there, there’s no hope for him. Too many people, and not enough to snack on. He’ll get trodden on, _or worse._

George is already in the deep end, so he might as well go for a swim. He takes the leap, darts out from under the platform, climbs up a rack, and onto the counter. He needs to move fast.

 _This is too risky_ ; a voice in the back of his head tells him as he ducks behind a spice rack. His nose twitches, _Oh, is that saffron?_

Focus.

Quick, past the simmering pots of sauce. One tomato, one cheese, one – _what on earth is that?_

No, no, it’s all wrong. Those flavours, they don’t work. George twitches his nose in disgust. This is elementary. How, in a kitchen of this prestige, could they let this happen. It can’t be served; the restaurant will be ruined. Well, maybe not as ruined as it would be if he’s seen but ruined all the same.

Then he sees it. The blond man, looking incredibly out of his depth, frantically darting around the kitchen grabbing at _anything_ and shoving it into the pot. Who hired _him?_

 _Though_ , George thinks, _he does look damn good in chef whites_.

Inexcusable.

The chef – can George even call him that – throws a handful of salt in. A handful? It’s criminal, it really is. So, George does what any self-respecting rat would do, and tips over the bag of sugar on the shelf above, watching it stream into the pot, safely hidden behind the spice rack.

 _Damn_ , the chef sees it too, and panics, more than he already was. He starts tossing in any old flavours, and George finds himself running around in the shadows trying to neutralise them. The chef throws in a handful of fresh arugula, so George knocks over the balsamic vinegar.

 _Tit for tat_.

The chef picks up a pot of mustard and George’s eyes grow wide. He doesn’t know how he’ll salvage the sauce if that so much as goes near it, this whole thing is getting impossible, he needs to do something.

So that’s exactly what he does.

Lemon grass in hand, he stands in clear view of the chef, and waves his arms frantically. The blond man locks eyes with him. Thankfully, he takes a second to comprehend the sight ahead of him – George will find time to get offended at that later – and it gives the rat enough time to act.

He throws the lemon grass into the pot, then twists his body to grab a slice of lime and squeezes it in.

The chef stares in awe.

George squeaks in satisfaction and finds himself growing cocky. He’s got an audience, so he will perform. He starts throwing in all kinds of ingredients, not even bothering to hide anymore. The flavours begin to grow, and the aroma suddenly becomes harmonious. Perhaps, with a little more garlic and a splash of –

Warm hands wrap around his tiny body, delicate enough not to hurt, but the grip is frantic. George feels himself being pulled away from the stove.

Up, up, and onto the head. Hat comes down over him, following in toe.

 _No, no, no_.

“What are you doing, Dream?” a voice spits, and George can see the shadow of an approaching man below.

“Just,” the chef, Dream, forces out nervously, “I thought this needed more – uh – turmeric.”

_No, the fuck it does not._

But Dream can’t hear George’s internal monologue and he reaches for the spice rack. All of George’s work, and it’s about to be undone by a single gesture. He can’t stand to watch. With that, and the fact Dream had been nice enough to not flatten him, he decided he can’t bring himself to let this happen. Dream’s hand lingers over the pot of turmeric and George reacts, violently tugging at strands of his hair.

It works. Miraculously, it works.

Dream’s hands fly up like a marionette, but not to grab at his head. No, they just hover in mid-air. George wiggles his nose in confusion.

He takes another fistful of hair in his hands and pulls gently to the left. Sure enough, Dream’s hand moves across, trailing his fingers down the rack, until –

 _Bingo_.

Cumin. _Much better_.

The rat yanks at Dream’s hair, forcing his hand down and his grip onto the pot below. Then up once again, over, and a quick shake the pot.

George can’t believe his eyes.

 _He can have some fun with this_.

The other man hums dubiously and reaches for a teaspoon. He inspects the consistency for a second, before taking a sip.

George can only imagine how it tastes but smelling it will have to do. He closes his eyes and pretends, thinks of how the cream will cling to his tongue, how the tomato will tickle his tastebuds, how the spices will zing in the back of his throat.

He’s knocked back into focus by the chef’s – the _real_ chef – groan of satisfaction.

“This is incredible,” he says to Dream. From his position in his hair, George smiles smugly, but he imagines Dream probably looks like a rat in headlights. The chef takes a step forward, closing the gap between him and Dream, and snarls, “Next time, keep your filthy hands off my sauce.”

He swiftly turns on his heel and leaves, leaving Dream alone with George on his head.

“What,” Dream’s voice is quiet, “the actual fuck.”

 _Oh shit, this is going to be a tough one to explain_.

George doesn’t know what to do, but it doesn’t matter because suddenly, they’re moving, and they’re moving fast. Away from the sauce pots, back towards the outside door. Though he could, should, George doesn’t react, instead freezing up in his nest of Dream’s hair. He finds himself cowering down between blond strands, afraid of what is to come. This is it, he’s done for, and he hadn’t even got his tongue aquatinted with any of the good food.

Through the door, away from the bustle of the kitchen and the prying eyes of judgemental staff, Dream rips off his chef’s hat. A gust of wind hits George and he springs into action. He launches himself six feet onto the floor below and scurries.

“Hey!” Dream calls behind him. “Come back!”

But George is away. He squeaks as he runs to safety, doesn’t believe his luck as his feet hammer familiar concrete.

_Wait. Did he sound upset?_

He stops. Something within him roots his four legs to the floor, and he stops.

_No, George, he’s not worth it._

“Please,” he can hear Dream’s voice in the distance, small, pleading.

Desperate?

The very bone of sympathy that caused him to stop, makes him turn back, despite his head screaming at him not to. He pads carefully down the pavement, keeping close to the wall, _just in case._

George realises he didn’t need to be careful, because when his eyes lock onto Dream once again, the man looks deflated. He watches from the shadows for a second as the man mutters inaudibly under his breath.

He steps forward, into the light, back in the deep end.

“Oh,” Dream says as he notices, “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

The rat squeaks.

Dream stays silent, motionless.

George is suddenly very aware of the language barrier. He’s pretty well versed in human English himself, from years of studying their behaviour and their recipes, but Dream has probably never needed to communicate with a rodent before.

_Because why would he?_

Instead, George nods. He’s not sure what he’s nodding for, but it’s a positive action and Dream looks like he needs one of those right about now.

It works, regardless of intention, because Dream’s face lights up.

“Please help me.”

George frantically nods.

Dream’s smile greatens as he bends down and extends a palm. George climbs aboard – this time in the deep end he has a raft.

Together they will conquer the world, or, at least, the kitchen.

\--

George moves in with Dream. His place isn’t much but, _oh boy_ , is it better than the gutter. It’s always warm, Dream made him up a bed to sleep in, and there’s food – so much food. He also owns a sizeable stack of recipe books, which is incredibly handy as they set about their impossible feat.

They’re in Dream’s kitchen, cramped compared to the restaurant, both staring at the recipe book propped up on the counter – Dream standing on the floor, George perched on the counter.

_Shephard’s pie._

“Do you really think this will work?” Dream asks, and George squeaks.

Dream may not speak rat, but George thinks he’s learning how to read his mannerisms. He reaches his arm out and touches the counter, allowing George to scurry up and onto his head.

“Okay,” Dream breathes reassurance, and George thinks it’s probably for his own benefit then his. “Whenever you’re ready, little guy.”

George positions himself upright in the nest of hair and scoops his hands through the strands. He gives a test tug of both and Dream’s arms fly up once again, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

 _Careful_.

Below him, Dream groans, regret probably coursing through his veins as he realises he’s about to handle knives. But George isn’t worried, he’s seen this a thousand times, watching the rush of a kitchen from a secluded spot on a windowsill.

A gentle pull and Dream’s hand is reaching for an already-peeled onion – Dream had done it earlier, explaining he wasn’t entirely useless (George wasn’t so sure). The rat navigates it back to the chopping board ahead of them and places it down a bit more aggressively than he’d intended, twitching his nose in surprise at the noise.

_Hey, there’s a bit of a learning curve, so what?_

There’s no point dwelling on it; the onion isn’t going to cut itself. George adjusts his grip on Dream’s blond hair and sends the man’s hand flying towards the knife block. He grabs one with relative ease and brings it back to the board, lining it up with the onion, while navigating Dream’s other hand to keep it still.

George prays Dream has, at least, learned to tuck in his fingers while chopping.

He pushes down. The blade isn’t very sharp, putting up far too much resistance for George’s liking, but that’s a problem for another day. What’s important, though, is that they’re successful. George peers over and notices Dream still has all ten fingers and they both share a sigh of relief.

_Maybe this could really work._

Another slice. _Easy_. Then another, then another. Dream – George – turns the onion on its side and they pick up the pace. It’s a long way from professional accuracy but they’ve got time. Before either of them knows it, the onion is successfully diced. George drops the golden strands from his grasps and scurries back down Dream’s arm to inspect his handiwork.

He looks back up at Dream, whose eyes are stained red by the vapours, and squeaks his satisfaction.

Dream smiles, “We make a really good team.”

George nods enthusiastically as Dream moves to heat some oil in a pan – _not completely useless_.

The hard part’s over. Cook the onions, brown the meat, make the sauce. Easy. Dream could probably do this without George’s help. Well, maybe – he’d probably find a way to ruin the sauce, even when following a recipe. He’d add two tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce instead of teaspoons but, with George’s help, this doesn’t happen, and the rest of the meal goes smoothly.

An hour later and the kitchen is filled with the tantalising aroma of the homemade dinner. Dream serves himself up a portion and sets aside a saucer for George. It tastes as good as it smells and, to the rat, it’s the best thing he’s ever had the fortune having passed his taste buds.

 _He could get used to this_.

And he does.

Over the course of a week, they spend countless hours working on their skills, improving tenfold. George teaches Dream how to combine flavours, and in return he’s fed like a king. They move in perfect harmony, as if they were made for each other, two halves of one very delicious pie.

Dream leaves for work each day, and lets George have free reign of his recipe books. On the first day, he’d left George with the fruit bowl, but the temptation had been too much for the little rat. Fresh fruit, almost an endless supply, and he couldn’t help himself. All day long, he’d stuffed and stuffed his cheeks full. When Dream came home, he was livid, and George was feeling quite nauseated.

On Friday he is feeling better, spending the day flicking through the desserts section of a particularly old cookbook. That is, until Dream comes crashing through the apartment door.

“George!” he yells. “George!”

George twitches at the noise and slowly emerges from his seat on the shelf, jumping down onto the oak kitchen table.

“There you are,” Dream sighs, body relaxing. He smiles as his eyes meet George’s beady stare. “I’ve got news.”

George squeaks, happy to see him but wary of the man’s slightly erratic state.

“The head chef came to see me today. Apparently, your sauce was a hit, and they want me to make it again on Monday.”

_What?_

“And I said yes!” Dream grins.

_Oh, this – this is too much._

George panics. He squeaks at Dream, scurrying back and forth across the tabletop frantically. He doesn’t remember what he added. Hell, he doesn’t even know what was in the base he was working on. How could Dream do this, how could he say yes? This is going to be a disaster. George never should have helped the chef; he should have just let him lose his job. They’re never going to pull this off, he doesn’t know why they ever tried.

“Calm down, calm down.” Despite it all, Dream’s voice is soothing. It’s enough to get George to slow his pacing and stop to look up at his friend. “It’ll be okay.”

_How can he say that?_

“We’ll get a bunch of ingredients together and just experiment. It doesn’t have to be identical, but it’s got to be damn good.” He pauses to bend down and evenly meet George’s gaze. “And I know you can do it.”

They say flattery never works, but, _hey_ , George has a bit of a soft spot for the giant, so he nods apprehensively.

\--

Monday rolls around and George finds himself perched under the chef’s hat outside the doors to the restaurant. There isn’t a bone in his body that wants to be here, but his heart has latched onto Dream and he can’t bring himself to run away.

“Are you ready, little guy?”

Once you’re in the deep, there’s no point swimming back to the shallows.

George tugs at Dream’s hair in response, propelling him forward with a little too much vigour. The pair of them crash through the doors and into the kitchen, Dream’s hands flying up to his head to keep his hat firmly on and to not reveal their secret to the head chef, who is standing impatiently on the other side.

“You’re late,” the chef says, voice hard. George knows from their last meeting that him and Dream don’t exactly see eye to eye, which will make this feat a whole lot harder to pull off.

Dream apologises profusely and is met with a disapproving grunt, to which George twitches at, nerves taking over.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, with them having arrived before the evening rush, just in case of disaster. The silence makes George nervous. What if he squeaks? What if the chef hears and uncovers their ploy?

_Focus._

He grabs his usual fistfuls of hair, second nature by now, and propels Dream towards the chiller. Through the door and into Aladdin’s Cave.

Blush tomatoes that mimic the sunset, ears of corn in the brightest of yellows, sprigs of rosemary which tickle his twitching nose. George _yearns_ to jump off Dream’s head and try it all. He imagines the flavours, the combinations, the sensations he can manifest.

_Not now._

He steers to the left, grabs fresh herbs, oils, tomatoes, garlic, vinegar, _anything_. If Dream can hold it, it’s going in the sauce.

The chef gives Dream a suspicious glance as George flies them both back into the kitchen, ingredients practically spilling out of the man’s grasp.

George twitches his nose.

_Ready._

Onto the counter. Placed, _carefully._ A quick tug to the right turns Dream to the stovetop. Down, light the gas, up, right again, grab a pot from the rack, left, and onto the heat. George flicks his wrist and Dream splashes olive oil into the pot. They chop the tomatoes, then the onions, a skill in which they are both well versed. The cuts are fast, even, _professional_.

Up, across, into the pot.

George’s ears twinge as the ingredients sizzle, coming into contact with the oil. A second later, his nose twitches too, the aromas lifting from the pot.

_Beautiful._

With that, his confidence builds. There’s no stopping him. He crushes cloves of garlic with newfound strength, strips herbs from their stems as if he were born to do so, practically throws them into the pot. He draws Dream’s hands forward and lingers them over the spice rack, bends him forward, and takes a sniff. Slender hands controlled by a master puppeteer toss pinches of flavour into the pot.

From the side-lines, the head chef looks on dumbfounded. The man before him is not the same as the one who had ran around the kitchen aimlessly only a week before.

_Not a man, a team, and a damn good one at that._

George twitches smugly, controlling the urge to squeak.

They clean as they go. George lets Dream take over, remembering _he’s not completely useless_ , taking over occasionally to add a dash of sugar or a sprinkle of salt. There’s something quite satisfying about a tidy kitchen and a delicious smell lingering in the air.

The chef clears his throat and Dream turns towards the pot before George can even react, too wrapped up in the flavours. There the man stands, teaspoon in hand, expression like he’d just stared into the eyes of a god and been given the key to the universe.

“Well done, I suppose,” the chef says, voice unreadable. It doesn’t matter because his face says it all.

Dream grins, George twitches, the chef grunts.

“We’ll discuss the promotion tomorrow,” he continues, and, with that, he sulks away into the back office.

“Oh,” Dream breathes, “my god.”

George squeaks in return, reminding Dream that he’d like to be let down some time soon. Too much time this high up, he’s found, makes him dizzy.

This time, their return back across the kitchen is slow, disbelieving, celebratory – a change to the week prior. The afternoon air is no longer a glimpse of freedom, but instead a weight lifted off George’s chest, a breath after a long time underwater.

Dream rips his hat off as soon as they’re out of sight from the restaurant, and George scampers down onto his shoulder, jumping onto an adjacent wall. The man cheers into the sky and the rat squeals.

“I can’t believe it! We did it!” Dream exclaims, smile beaming across his rosy cheeks. “We actually did it!” Dream leans forwards and pick’s George up gently, and George cosies into the warm touch. “I could kiss you!”

_What?_

They both freeze, Dream realising what he’s said, George in shock. The air falls down around them, thick, heavy, suffocating.

Despite it all, George finds himself nodding, opting for the human mannerism for clarity.

The man looks unusually small as he leans in. It’s a quick peck, one you’d give a cat or a dog to express your love. George smiles – it’s not much but it’s theirs.

“Oh,” Dream breathes, and George suddenly realises he isn’t being held anymore.

He holds eye contact with Dream, from slightly below, but his feet stand on concrete. George twitches his nose out of habit as he eyes the man with fresh clarity and a new perspective. Dream’s face is one of utter shock as he gawks at the man stood before him – George.

“What?” he squeaks. _He knows what_.

“You’re beautiful,” Dream’s voice comes out barely a whisper.

There’s no reflection around, but George doesn’t care. The barrier that had been placed between them has crumbled, allowing the man before him to see him for who he truly is. More than just a rat, a soul. The other half of Dream’s own.

George smiles gratefully, then leans into another kiss. This time human lips are brought into a warm embrace, long overdue. Instinctively, he brings his hands up and knots his newfound fingers into Dream’s familiar golden strands. He feels Dream melt into his touch, more than ever before, as he deepens the kiss.

It just feels right, as if they were made for each other, forged from the ingredients of the universe.

\--

“Chef’s special for table six!”

Dream approaches the head chef, positioned in the centre of the room, as he shouts. The kitchen, the new kitchen, is incredibly busy as staff run around fulfilling the evening rush. The atmosphere is loud and full of flavour.

“Give me two minutes, babe,” George responds with a smile.

The promotion had been good for Dream, but George was better. The second he’d raked up enough money, he had quit, pursuing a new dream. A second home, a shared future.

Adjusting to human life had been challenging. The kitchen itself wasn’t a problem, he would forever be at home in front of a stove, ingredients at his fingertips. Interacting with staff had been hard at first and, a year down the line, George couldn’t say he didn’t still hold the occasional rat mannerism. He doubts he’ll ever be able to stop twitching his nose. Dream tells him it’s endearing, so he finds himself not caring.

Dream stands to his side, watching, waiting patiently. If George’s second home is the kitchen, his first is definitely Dream. The first man who had ever shown him an ounce of kindness and the man he owes his entire existence to.

He places his dish before his love, presenting it with a giggle and a flourish of his wrist. Slices of pepper and courgette doused in a rich tomato sauce emit aromas he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. He looks down, satisfied with his handiwork.

 _Ratatouille_.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr is drowninginmycornflakes and I am sorry.


End file.
